


hum hallelujah

by wentz



Category: NCT (Band), WayV (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Religious, Church Sex, Corruption Kink, M/M, Priest Kink, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wentz/pseuds/wentz
Summary: “Father.” Johnny's hands rest on the priest’s thighs. “Let me suck you off.”





	hum hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> "i sucked a priest's dick in a gothic cathedral and when he came on my face i saw god in his semen" - johnny to ten later that day, probably

Johnny is a good boy.

He attends Mass every Sunday. He pays his tithe. He gets on his knees and prays. He lights a candle for his mother, his grandmother, his aunts. He crosses himself before every meal. He does his best to go to confession regularly.

Johnny is a good boy.

“Such a good boy,” Father Qian murmurs, one hand moving from Johnny’s forehead to the crown of his head, pushing the hair away from Johnny’s eyes. He looks up at the priest, blinking away tears. The rose-tinted light streaming through the stained glass windows high in the apse haloes Father Qian, throwing his shape into a sharp silhouette. Johnny swallows around the priest’s cock, doing his best not to drool onto the marble floor. Doing his best to be good.

The hand on the back of his skull turns heavy, dragging his head back so his chin tips up and his throat opens up. Father Qian’s hips move once, slow and deliberate, and Johnny has to close his eyes at the way his dick feels sliding down the length of his throat. He makes a sound, thin and strung out, too quiet to carry beyond where they stand near the altarpiece.

Father Qian pets over Johnny’s jaw with his other hand and quiets him with a soothing noise. “Hush, child,” he murmurs. “You should be still. Wait patiently.”

Johnny closes his eyes again, throat working as it struggles to stay relaxed around the intrusion. Whimpers rise around Father Qian’s dick, tripping over one another to push past his lips. He swallows again to stifle them and the fingers in his hair tighten.

Above him, the priest lets out a long, shaky breath. “Good boy,” he repeats. The hand on Johnny’s chin hooks its fingers around the bolt of his jaw and starts to guide Johnny’s head up and down the priest’s cock. “Blessed are those who obey, John.” 

The hair on the back of Johnny’s neck and arms stands up as a hot chill runs down his spine, like the Holy Ghost chasing itself through his nervous system. His eyes roll into the back of his head; he can’t control the way his body trembles. He’s vaguely aware of his dick throbbing in the confines of his slacks but he doesn’t move his hands from where they rest on top of his own thighs. He couldn’t—there’s no room in his head to think of it, no space to think of anything but pleasing his Father.

The priest’s hips start to piston back and forth in counterpoint to the drag of Johnny’s mouth so he sheathes himself fully in Johnny’s throat with each push of his hand on the back of Johnny’s head. Johnny does his best to breathe through his nose. His senses fill with Father Qian: his taste, the silky smoothness of his skin against Johnny’s lips. His _smell_. Anointing oil and pontifical incense. The deep, rich bouquet of communion wine. And the heady, musky, _carnal _scent of the holy man’s sex, stronger than anything else, covering over a multitude of scents when the priest holds Johnny down and his nose presses into the skin at the base of Father Qian’s cock. 

Johnny gags harshly, the sound rough and ugly in contrast to the sacred quiet of the basilica, and Father Qian’s grip relaxes, coaxing Johnny off his cock with a gentle coo. Johnny’s head lolls back between his shoulders, too foggy to even hold itself upright. The tears clouding his vision transform each of the altar candles into wavering spears of gold to match the thin halos that grace the heads of the saints looking down upon from the dome of the apse.

“So good,” Father Qian murmurs, tracing through the tear tracks on each of Johnny’s cheeks. Johnny turns his face towards his priest’s gentle hand and takes deep breaths, trying to calm his shaking. His mouth buzzes from the inside out. 

One finger touches Johnny’s lips, dragging through the thick spit that covers them, and slips past his teeth to push the mix of saliva and precum onto his tongue. Johnny sucks on it desperately, looking up past where Father Qian’s cock still hangs out of his black slacks to search for approval in the priest’s eyes.

Father Qian smiles down at him and warmth makes Johnny’s limbs heavy. It’s the same smile the Father gives him when he tips the communion cup into his mouth, the same smile he uses in the confessional, the one that makes the close hush of the booth intimate instead of stifling. It’s encouraging, authoritative; the smile of a gentle shepherd.

A whimper escapes Johnny’s chest and he shuffles forward on his knees to push his face into the cup of Father Qian’s pelvis, arms coming up to wrap around the backs of the priest’s thighs. He clings there, hanging off the priest’s legs, and rubs his cheek against the stiff fabric of his pants as close to the Father’s cock as he can get, lips touching the coarse hair at his base. The teeth of the zipper catches at the skin of Johnny’s cheek. He does it again, and again, and again, scratching his skin raw like it’s penance, like an act of self-flagellation.

“Father,” he mumbles, shifting at the priest’s feet. His knees ache and his dick sticks unpleasantly to the wet patch in his underwear.

Father Qian’s hands comb through his hair. “Yes, child.”

Johnny watches a single bead of cum gather at the tip of the priest’s cock, off-white and translucent; a perfect rosary pearl. He leans forward to lick it off, lips closing around the head and suckling gently. A heavy breath leaves Father Qian’s chest and both of his hands cradle Johnny’s face reverently.

He pulls off with a sinful _pop_ that echoes off the vaulted ceiling. Taking his priest’s right hand, he leaves a kiss on the back of his knuckles—_the hand of God_, he thinks with a shiver—and looks up at Father Qian through his lashes. Johnny knows _exactly_ how perverse he must look, how _lewd_, kneeling in front of the altar with his mouth red and swollen, but twisted pride blooms in his stomach when he takes in the state of the priest. 

Beyond the obscene visual of his holy cock standing wet and flushed out of the front of his slacks, his shirt is half-untucked, rucked up just enough to expose the black treasure trail that leads up from his dick towards his belly like a tease in reverse. Johnny wants to push the shirt up and see more, see the priest’s stomach, his chest, his ribs and the spaces in between, his collar bones. There’s really so, so much of Father Qian that Johnny has never seen—so much territory to map out. Sweat gathers at his hairline and rolls down his temples, catching Johnny’s eye as it gleams in the candlelight. It shines in the hollow of his neck, too. The evening sun beams through the stained glass and tints his skin crimson. 

It’s a special thing, Johnny thinks, to defile a man of God. Father Qian looks heavenly. He looks divine.

“Want you to fuck me,” Johnny croaks. It’s the first time he’s really spoken aloud and the effect his fucked-out voice has on Father Qian is immediately evident: the priest’s eyes go dark and his cock twitches, inches away from Johnny’s face. “Please, Father.”

“Shouldn’t,” mumbles Father Qian, although his dick has already betrayed him. He thumbs over Johnny’s lips. They tingle under his touch, tender from the earlier abuse.

Johnny stands fully onto his knees, hands coming up to support his weight by hooking into the priest’s open waistband. “We’ve come this far,” he points out. Father Qian’s hands cover Johnny’s on his belt; holding, not deterring. “I can tell you want to. You want _me_. I want you, too.” 

The priest’s expression wavers for a fraction of a second and Johnny knows he’s almost got him. He tangles their fingers together. 

“Kun,” he whispers, barely breathing the words between them. The priest’s throat catches audibly at the use of his first name. “_Please_. Let me make you feel good.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of the drafty basilica and the blood pounding in Johnny’s ears. He prays every prayer he’s ever learned, plus a few he was never taught—_please, please, please_—and watches the rise and fall of Father Qian’s chest. And then, from nothing—

Hands, all hands, pulling at the back of Johnny’s head and under his armpits, hauling him up, up, heavenwards, up to meet the Father’s lips in a sloppy, wet kiss. Johnny loops his arms around the priest’s neck half to keep him close and half to support his own weight when his sore knees threaten to buckle. 

Father Qian kisses each feel like their own blessing. His mouth sears against Johnny’s, melting him from the inside out as though pushing the Word of God past Johnny’s lips with his tongue. 

Both of his hands—and such beautiful hands they are, graceful and sanctified hands, hands for making the sign of the cross, hands for placing wafers on tongues; hands not accustomed to sin but suited for it nonetheless—touch Johnny’s skin, everywhere at once, too many places for Johnny to follow. First on his face, stroking his cheeks; now on his chest, following the swell of his pectorals; now between his legs, palming the hard line of his cock through his pants; now on his arms, tracing the twin lines of his radius and ulna down to his wrists, pulling Johnny’s hands between their chests to twine their fingers together.

It’s intense. _Kun _is intense. Johnny thinks of the boy who touched the Ark, thinks of Saul going blind, thinks of Moses approaching Mount Sinai with his back turned against the glory of God.

“So good,” Father Qian gasps, peppering kisses like red hot blisters along the line of Johnny’s neck. “Like a lamb, John. Blessed and highly favored.”

Johnny’s head spins. “Father,” he says, voice weak. “_Please_, please fuck me.”

The priest tucks his nose into the hollow behind Johnny’s ear. “Shh,” he soothes. “I can’t fuck you, Johnny. I haven’t got anything—no lube, no condom.”

Johnny’s fingers clench in the back of Father’s Qian’s black shirt, bunching up the fabric. “_Please_.” He turns his face into the priest’s neck to muffle the way he half-sobs the plea. One hand drops to Father Qian’s cock, squeezing it carefully to feel the weight, to remind the priest what it’ll feel like to be inside him. “Don’t need a condom, you can fuck me without one. You can come inside me, it’ll feel so good.”

A short beat of silence follows where Johnny dares to hope that the priest will agree, but it only lasts for a moment. “Lamb.” Father Qian uses the gentle tone usually reserved for when he addresses the smallest members of the children’s church. “We’d still need lube.”

“No, I—” His face burns at the sound of his own whining but he can’t _stop _himself, he can’t—he’s fucking _feverish _with how much he wants Father Qian. “Oil, we can use the anointing oil.”

“John.” Amusement tinges the outside edges of the priest’s words. “Even if that would work, there’s a limit to the amount of blasphemy I can commit in a day.” He cranes his head back, prying Johnny out of the crook of his shoulder so they can look into one another’s eyes again. “You’re so… _needy_.”

The heat in Johnny’s cheeks flames higher. “I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he admits.

Father Qian smirks. “Well, you know, Jacob labored for fourteen years so he could bone Rachel.” He tugs on Johnny’s belt loops, pulling close until their bodies are flush. “I think you’ll be alright, what do you think?”

Johnny grinds against the priest’s pelvis where it’s pressed against his own. It’s the first friction he’s gotten on his dick and it feels like fucking Revelation. He knows Father Qian expects a witty reply but it’s all Johnny can do to whine, “_Kun_,” before he’s fully rutting against the priest’s hip, desperately chasing the stimulation.

“Lord help me,” the priest whispers, and then those beautiful, blessed hands are lowering Johnny’s fly, reaching into his pants to shape his dick. His fingertips slide through the slick damp spot where Johnny’s already soaked through his underwear. A smile flits around his lips when he dips past the elastic band of the boxer briefs and his hand drags through the mess of precum inside as he wraps his hand around Johnny’s cock.

“Oh, _John_,” Father Qian sighs, like _he’s _the one being touched for the first time, like _he’s _the one being stroked off with the slick of his own jizz.

It’s nothing. It’s a messy handjob. Johnny has been on the giving and receiving ends of one countless times. And yet, it feels so _good_.

He releases his death grip on the priest’s shoulders to undo the buttons on his own shirt. He’s barely halfway down when Father Qian pulls away from the bruise he’s sucking into Johnny’s neck. 

“Wait, wait,” he pants, tugging at Johnny’s hands and taking a step backwards. “Let’s go to my office.”

Johnny pulls back. “No.” He uses the space between them to pull his shirt over his head and toe off his dress shoes, then his socks. “Here. Let’s do it here.”

Father Qian’s hands fall to his sides. His eyes shift from Johnny over to the altarpiece, up towards the soaring dome and the images of the saints, around to the statues arranged in the transepts, over the lines of pews, and coming to rest on the heavy church doors at the opposite of the nave. “I don’t—”

“Father.” Johnny pushes his slacks and his underwear down together, steps out of them and gets on his knees. They protest, still aching from earlier, but it’s _good_—the pain is part of what makes it good, what makes Johnny’s heart race as he genuflects, fully naked, in front of the priest. His hands rest on Father Qian’s thighs. “Let me suck you off.”

“_Oh_,” Father Qian breathes, catching Johnny’s chin in his hand and tilting his head this way and that to watch the planes of his face catch the light. “Look at you, child. You are— the _picture_…” He seems to lose the thought, eyes going hazy as he trails off. _With lust, _Johnny thinks. _With mortal sin._

He takes the priest’s cock in his hand again, jacking him off fast enough that he won’t get bored but slow enough that he won’t come too quickly. Johnny uses his other hand stroke himself a few times, gathering up as much of the mess smeared across his skin onto his fingers as possible before pushing them into his own mouth. He takes his time sucking on them, covering them with spit, and when Father Qian adds his own fingers he pays them equal attention, too. 

Once his digits seem sufficiently slick, he withdraws them from his mouth and reaches around behind him to press them into his asshole. It’s a weird angle—a terrible angle, really—and two fingers right off the bat with no lube makes Johnny wince, but it’s worth it for the _sound _Father Qian lets out when he does it. Oh, it’s _glorious_—the first proper moan Johnny’s gotten out of him. Exhilaration races through Johnny like an echo of God breathing into Adam’s nostrils. Before the elation can fade back into discomfort, he leans forward to take the priest into his mouth once again. This time it only takes guiding Father Qian’s hand to the back of his head to get him to start fucking Johnny’s mouth.

And this… _this _feels right. This feels righteous, feels sublime, feels fucking _immaculate_. Here, naked on his knees in the house of God, in front of the altar; here, on the threshold of the Holy of Holies, getting throat-fucked by his priest; this feels like _worship_. As Father Qian’s ordained cock hits the back of his throat and Johnny’s eyes begin to water, the stained glass and the sculpted gold and the intricately laid mosaic blur into a swirl of color and light until there’s nothing—nothing but Kun, in him, on him, around him.

The priest moves back, guiding Johnny off and stopping him with a gentle hand when he chases Kun’s cock with his mouth. “I’m close,” he huffs, replacing Johnny’s mouth with his hand. Johnny’s mouth waters as he watches Father Qian jack himself off. He speeds up the pace of his own hands to match, trying to stay in sync, trying to chase the exalted feeling of being one with Kun.

“Close your eyes,” Father Qian grunts, fingers a blur on his own cock. No sooner do Johnny’s eyelids slide shut than he hears a low moan, broken in half by a higher-pitched sound, and stripes of hot, thick spunk cover his face, painting each of his cheeks with the Father’s ordained cum. 

Heat pours down Johnny’s spine. It only takes digging his fingertips into his prostate one more time for him to come, too, and it’s fucking _apocalyptic_. He swears he hears trumpets—but then again, that might just be Kun’s name bouncing around the church in echoes of Johnny’s voice.

Johnny’s eyes flutter open to find Father Qian gazing down at him, mouth pink and wet as he pants for breath, still pumping his dick with his full fist. Another gush of cum pulses out of his tip, drooling down the back of the priest’s right hand—the same hand that the congregation kisses after receiving his blessing.

“Oh, Johnny,” he sighs. His hand stills, and the left one lifts to hover just over Johnny’s face. “_Angel_. You look—you look like the weeping Madonna.”

“Does it suit me?”

Kun leans down, taking his face between his hands. He kisses Johnny on the forehead, in the same spot he draws the sooty cross when Ash Wednesday comes around. The touch lingers with a weight that’s almost tangible.

“Yes,” Kun murmurs against his skin. “You look like a saint.”

**Author's Note:**

> don't tell god i compared a man with cum on his face to his mom crying
> 
> [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/teddykun)   
[ twitter](https://twitter.com/kittyong)


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